


Scotham

by bonnie_wee_swordsman



Series: Various Tumblr Prompts [5]
Category: Outlander & Related Fandoms, Outlander Series - Diana Gabaldon
Genre: Crack Fic, F/M, Ridiculousness, Vigilante
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-10
Updated: 2017-02-22
Packaged: 2018-09-07 13:56:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8803465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonnie_wee_swordsman/pseuds/bonnie_wee_swordsman
Summary: THIS IS A CRACK FIC. ...but I kind of also love it





	1. Episode I

**Author's Note:**

> A silly fic I wrote for a Tumblr Outlander Secret Santa exchange, based on the prompt: 
> 
> “Perhaps something Christmas themed? Or an AU where Jamie and Claire are a badass crime-fighting duo, taking on the criminal red coat gang in the seedy underbelly of the city…sorry, mind got away from me there :P”

He watched his breath swirl on the frozen night air.  Scotham was quiet tonight. Far too quiet for Christmas Eve. No carolers or merrymakers made their way down the streets. Everyone was indoors, doors locked, windows barred, weapons at the ready. Just another night in Scotham.

December 24th. 457 days since The Redcoats had announced their claim to control over the city.

456 days since MacDubh had taken to the streets.

He was not the only one. There were others who had risen up to keep Scotham’s citizens safe from the pernicious criminal invaders. _Ruaidh_ had done well to keep her western sector in order. His Uncle Dougal kept the south handled under the guise of _War Chief._ There were others, too: nameless fighters who took action when and where they were able, without suits or personae. _Good_. _They_ would be the strength of the city, when all was said and done. With law enforcement so hotly targeted by the English scum, there was little the government could do to keep the peace or protect the vulnerable. The city needed as many defenders as could shoulder the burden of its care, _super_ or not.

The City Center, though, had been _his_ domain alone, so densely populated with Redcoats that only he had as yet dared to battle in the very heart of the vermin hive. Hit hard and quick, he did. Take their weapons for reallocation to the Resistance. Drop off the captured filth at one of the few functional police stations so that they might be served as much justice as the beleaguered authorities could afford. _Every night. Until they are gone._

 _So quiet_ , he thought, his heart squeezing. _So tragically quiet._

457 days ago, the sassenachs had sworn on live broadcast that anyone speaking the Gaelic, wearing tartan, or otherwise displaying their Scots-ness would be “executed on sight”. The public had scoffed and gone about their business and clothing as usual….. _It had taken weeks to clear all the corpses from the streets._  So many friends…family…a lover. 

Solid colors were now ubiquitous in the city. Folk didn’t speak aloud in public except in the barest of whispers. It was the only way to remain invisible, and thereby safe from the English. _Safer from the English._

The problem was there was no way to know for sure which of the sassenachs were in league with the Redcoats. Everyone with the invaders’ accent had to be treated as an enemy. There was no doubt that the nest of them across the tiny alley that lay beneath him were Reds, though– a mere twenty feet as the crow flies, albeit three stories down. They were a careless unit, to plan their raids in the open air where anyone might see and hear what they were about. Careless, and _doomed_ , if he did say so himself.

He retreated to the far side of the rooftop, leaning against the wall to the stairwell, preparing his mind and his trappings. Targe strapped to his arm, his most common weapon for defending and laying blows that wouldn’t kill. Dirks at the ready, just in case. Mask carefully affixed. Suit _battered_ , but impenetrable, as long as he took care at the seams at the joints.

“Right, then, Fraser,” he whispered to himself, jumping up and down and rolling his shoulders like a boxer, backing up on silent feet to give himself enough runway for the leap. He exhaled and narrowed his eyes. “Tualach- _fucking_ -Ard.”

Other than brute strength, speed was his greatest extra-human skill, and it was mere seconds before he reached the edge of the building. He pushed off hard from the ground to make the jump to the ledge that would then propel him across the street onto the heads of the unsuspecting Redcoats below— _and then something hit him a glancing but HEAVY blow against his left shoulder, sending him crashing hard to the ground and smashing into the low wall._

Instinct took over and he was back on his feet in the next moment, locked in fierce hand-to-hand combat with the assailant who had collided with him. His targe had clattered aside as he fell, but he lashed out with his fists.

“Don’t you fucking DARE hit me. I was going for them too, I’m on your si–”

The posh female voice froze him colder than the frigid night air. English. She was a fucking _SASSENACH_.

In a flash, he was behind her, grabbing her around the neck with one arm and the waist by the other, dragging her away, not taking any pains to be gentle.

“You goddamned, bloody BASTARD!” she was saying through clenched teeth and strangled throat, straining for air. I”m ON…. YOUR… SIDE…. With’th…bloody…’SISTANCE!”

He was still for a moment, mind racing furiously. Then, he shoved her hard away from him so that she crashed against the stairway wall. The precious seconds gave him enough time to draw his longest dirk and shove it against her neck. “If you’re with the Resistance, then why do I not ken you ? And why would ye be creeping about in City Center without anyone keeping me informed?”

She glared at him, and he moved just quickly enough to pin the leg that had just moved upward to knee him in the groin. “Because I’m NEW, you fucking SCOT!”

He snarled. “And you’ll expect me to trust ye blindly wi’ an accent like THAT?” He spat at her feet.

THAT was a mistake. Super-speed be damned, she had him on his back, pinned and writhing in  excruciating pain before he could even open his mouth to speak. It took every ounce of willpower not to scream aloud. He couldn’t even shout at the wee bitch, for fear of alerting the Redcoats.  He gritted his teeth and squeezed his eyes fiercely shut against the waves of agony. “You goddamned son of a—CHRIST, woman, you’ve dislocated my shoulder!”

“I KNOW that. Got your attention, didn’t it?” She was straddling his chest, pinning his arms at the elbows with her knees. Had she not just wrecked his goddamned shoulder, he could have taken her on, easily. As it was, she had him as helpless as a beetle on a pin. She gave him a deadly look of fury and (damn her) _amusement_. “I’ll put it back in joint and you’ll be right as rain…the instant you SWEAR to stop trying to bloody kill me!”

He braved the pain, growling, to sit halfway up to sneer into her face. “I’ll no’ promise a  _filthy sassenach_ anyth—“

She slammed him back flat again and he cursed ferociously in the Gaelic.

“LOOK!” came her hissing whisper. When he opened his eyes, even through the spinning rainbow stars before his eyes, he could see the words on the backlit screen inches away from his nose. The sassenach waved it impatiently. “READ IT, damn you.”

It was a news article from last year, one of the last issues of the Times before it had been taken over: _Prominent Ex-Pat English Scientists murdered by Reds._ There was a picture. A husband and wife.

“My parents,” she said quietly.

He felt realization jolt through him. “YOU’RE Claire Beauchamp?!?” he shouted.

“SHHHHHHHHHHHHH _utyourgoddamnmouth_ ,” she hissed.

She had moved lightning-fast again, both hands now pressed down tight over his mouth. She was all but sitting on his sternum with her knees on either side of his head. 

The suggestive position had his pain-addled brain imagining himself responding in Angus’s roguish voice: _“How’s about I OPEN the goddamn mouth instead and show ye a grand ol’ time wi’ it, eh lass?”_

As alluring as the prospect before him (above him) was, all sleek in crimson leather, the lurid position had also put fresh pressure on his injured shoulder and her hands were muffling not more shouts, but another groan of agony.

“YES, I’m Claire Beauchamp–” she whispered sharply, pulling her mask up onto the top of her head for further proof _(Jesus, she was just as gorgeous in person. Far meaner than the society mags would have you believe, though_ ). “—And so YES I have every reason to hate the Redcoats, and so YES if you swear to stop trying to kill me or take me in, I will fix your shoulder and we can _both_ get back to keeping innocent Scots from being raided on Christmas Eve. AGREED?”

Jamie nodded. “‘greed,” he said through her muffling hands.

She jumped off him, pulled him into a sitting position, and before he could properly take stock of what she was doing, he felt a sharp pressure and his shoulder slide back into place with a deep, skeletal THUNK. He gasped and gulped air, astounded by the quick work. The acute pain was gone, but he could still barely lift the arm. “Thank ye kindly, I suppose,” he said pointedly with a glare, “but there’s no possible way I can fight with it aching like th—OW—WHAT THE—did you just STAB me, Sassenach?”

“DO NOT call me that,” she said harshly, drawing back from his exposed underarm. “And yes… though ‘stab’ feels a bit melodramatic for a tiny injection.” She stood up, towering above him and fiddling with something on her suit. “It’s a fast-acting serum–my own formulation. Your shoulder will be free of all swelling in 3..2..1…?”

“I’ll be damned,” he said, standing and rotating his now pain-free, ache-free shoulder, looking down in wonder as she refastened the tiny pouch at her waist that blended in with her costume. _Respect where respect was due,_ he thought, considerably impressed. And if she is on OUR side…

“What is it you call yourself, then, Miss Beauchaump? When you’re thusly out and about and _tearing peoples’ arms off_ , that is?”

She looked up with a small shrug. “Hadn’t really thought of it.”

He fixed her with a dry look. “Oh aye?.”

“Oh alright, _fine_ , “ she said, annoyed, “I haven’t come up with the _right_ name, yet.”

“There it is,” he said triumphantly, grinning, walking a short distance to retrieve his targe. “Any frontrunners?”

She looked suddenly a bit self-conscious. “Well…I thought maybe ‘The Surgeon’ or something of the like. I’m a doctor, you know.”

“Aye, everyone in Scotham kens that,” he said, thinking of the shiny magazine articles where she was regularly featured.  “ _The Surgeon_ , aye?”

“The name fits in nicely with my fighting skill set too,” she said, sounding excited. “I’ve got the whole range of syringes: paralysis-inducing; fire-ant venom (creates a nasty itch, good for buying time); the anti-inflammation one, of course; and some others I’m experimenting with. _Besides_ ,” she said, smirking, “I’ve got rather a knack for manipulating the human body to get what I want, _wouldn’t you say_?”

Jamie snorted. “You’re a deadly wee thing, and no mistake.”

“Not _truly_ deadly,” she said sharply, looking suddenly serious. “I mean, I _could_ kill, but I won’t. Not unless it’s my life or theirs, or some innocent.”

“That’s verra noble of you, I suppose. Though I think you’ll find it more difficult than you might imagine, when they’re coming after you one after the other. Sometime’s it’s easier to gut them and be done wi’ it.”

She raised her head proudly. “I took an oath, and if I’m going to use my medical knowledge as my weaponry, I feel I have to abide by it.”

Jamie cocked an eyebrow, pointing to his shoulder as he quoted dubiously, “ ‘ _First, do no_ –’”

“– _PERMANENT_ harm,” she finished pointedly.

“Fair enough,” he said, laughing, despite himself, fierce wee thing. “I canna fault your effectiveness, and I certainly wouldna wish to be your opponent again. That name, though…. _The Surgeon, The Surgeon_ ,” he said, trying it out on his tongue. “But would that no’ be a clue leading right to your secret identity? A shapely English doctor wi’ a grudge against the Redcoats–surely those are none _so verra common_ in Scotham?”

“ _Shapely_ , hmm?” she said, raising her eyebrows.

“Oh, well–SHITE–that is, err–” He pulled a face; then, seeing her pronounced amusement at his discomfort, straightened. “Aye,” he said, looking her squarely in the eye. “ _Distinctively_ shapely.”

She crossed her arms and looked him frankly up and down. “You’re not so bad yourself, Mac.”

That startled him. “You _do_ ken who I am, then?”

She made a scoffing sound deep in her throat that would have given any native-born Scot a run for his money. “You think there’s _more than one_ 6’ 4” red-headed vigilante running about in a _bulletproof PLAID supersuit_?”

He couldn’t help bursting out laughing at that summary of himself. “It’s a _subtle_ plaid, though, do ye not think? Ye canna even truly see it as anything other than dark green, save in direct light!”

“No, you’re perfectly right.” She smiled broadly, genuinely, coming closer to run her fingers along the Kevlar that sculpted his left forearm. “I think they must boost the exposure on the photos the paparazzi manage to get of you: always looks rather garish in print. It’s perfect, though: the perfect _fuck you_ to the Reds. _You’ve inspired a lot of people in this city,_ ” she said, in a quite different tone that made him look from her hand–which was tracing the line of the tartan up the length of his arm–and full into her face. Her brows were furrowed hard and the muscles of her throat were tight. She _did_ care about the city; _did_ despise the Reds as much as any Scot, English birth or no. There was fire in her eye, but not merely the burning of personal revenge; the sadness and pain of true conviction, true _feeling._

He realized all at once that they were both frozen still. Her fingertips had flowed from the high collar of his suit onto the bare skin of his neck just under his jaw, as though feeling for his pulse. Her eyes flicked up, and for a moment, they were connected: not freedom fighters or rebels; just two humans, linked together in the trust of touch.

Then, reality snapped back into place and they were cold-blooded vigilantes once more. They flew back from each other quickly as though an electric shock had passed between them. Maybe one had. He certainly had felt it, and and she looked as though she were trying to pretend she hadn’t. “So, are we going to take care of these Redcoat bastards, or what?” she said brusquely. “I was going to handle them myself, but since you’re _here_ , and all…”

He made a cordial leg, masking his fluster with bravado (his _other_ super-skill). “And what sort of gentleman would I be if I made a lady traipse about the city looking for her _own_ batch of arsewipes at this hour, and it Christmas Eve, forbye?”

“No gentleman at all,” she agreed, playing along, checking her gear and replacing her mask. Standing there, the moonlight catching the shadows of her deep crimson suit, her mouth set as she flexed her powerful gloved hands, she looked absolutely breathtaking…AND absolutely _lethal_.

“I’ve got it!” he said suddenly, as they backed up together, preparing for the run and jump that had been foiled for them both ten minutes’ past.

“Got what?”

“Your name…. _Assassinach_.”

She made an exasperated sound and shoved him off balance. “For the last fucking time, do NOT call me a sass–”

“No, _listen_ , aye?” He turned to her and made a throat-slitting gesture, grinning expectantly. “ _ASSASSIN_ -ach.”

The corner of her mouth twitched, but she shook her head, crouching back in a runner’s pose, awaiting the starting gun. “I told you, Mac, I’m not going to go about _actually_ killing people.”

“Maybe no.” He crouched beside her and cocked an eyebrow sidelong at her. “…but the _Redcoats_ dinna need to know that, now _do_ they?”

And OFF they went, sprinting across the rooftop down onto the heads of the unsuspecting enemy of City Center.

_Together._


	2. Episode II

“ _Whisky_?” Miss Beauchamp had just pulled her mask up to rest on the top of her head, showing a nose wrinkled up in distaste at the proffered flask.

“ _Whiss-keee_ ,” he enunciated, watching her lean toward him to give a tentative sniff, then recoil hastily. “Maybe you’ve heard of it? This _is_ Scotham, lass.”

She punched his arm playfully—NOT gently—“I know what it _IS, jackass,_ I just don’t _like_ it.”

“Oh, so you’ve lost use of your tastebuds, then,” Jamie offered consolingly, mouth twitching.

“Bloody _Scot_ ,” she huffed, but _fondly_ , her eyes rolling but full of laughter.

They were perched side-by-side on a concrete chimney pedestal on a rooftop near the police station, still heaving from the exertion of the past hour. Their breaths mingled snow-white together in the frigid air of the night before them.

“Did your parents no’ like it either, then?” Too late, Jamie realized what he’d said and could have cut his foolish tongue out for it.   


Thankfully, this casual reference to her murdered family didn’t seem to have dampened Miss Beauchamp’s good humor. “Oh, quite the contrary: my Mum and Dad _loved_ whisky,” she said, emphatically. “They had a huge collection and drank it most every day. SO,” she pursed her lips and gave a mock-imperious look, “I decided at an early age that I _didn't_ like it.”

“So you’ve never even _had_ it?” Jamie demanded.

She shrugged. “Other than a hot toddy or two when I was sick as a child, _no_.”

Jamie gave a good-humored sound of derision, turning to look straight ahead and thrusting the flask toward her again without even looking. “'Tis cold out, and you're tired out wi’ the fighting. Give it a go, aye?”

The lass took the flask reluctantly. “There’s no ‘ _Don’t Drink and Leap Tall Buildings_ ’ slogan, then?’” Jamie laughed aloud, and Miss Beauchamp broke into a beaming grin herself. “I'm _serious_! I’m fairly new to the alley-jumping thing myself, but not sure I’d want to go about attempting it while intoxicated!”

“Well, and if ye dinna think ye can _handle_ it,” he baited, raising his eyebrows and reaching to take back the flask.

She glared at him took a sizeable, spiteful gulp. She started to cough and choke, but held his eye dead-on as she swallowed. After a moment, she blinked twice and nodded. “ _Actually_ , that’s not at all bad,” she said, sounding thoroughly surprised and taking another draught.

“ _Not at all bad_ , she says of my best five-year-old batch,” he said shaking his head with a grin. After enjoying a long swallow himself, he exhaled blissfully and leaned back against the chimney post. A moment passed, and then Miss Beauchamp did the same, the pair of them resting comfortably in each others’ company as though they’d known each other for _years_ , rather than scarcely an hour. 

“You're a bonny fighter, if I might say so, Miss Beauchamp. Ye held your own, back there.”

From the corner of his eye, he could see her head turn sharply toward him, appraising. “Do you mean that?” He could hear the suspicion rife in her voice. “Or are you just _coddling_ me?”

Jamie snorted. “I dinna go about coddling grown women, _Sassenach_. Least of all, those that are fully equipped to break my neck and then send me home good as new and still trying to figure out what they feckin’ _did_ to me in the first place.”

She turned to look forward again but Jamie could see her mouth working to suppress a smile of satisfied pride. “Well...it _did_ feel rather good, taking down that group of Reds....No: _amazing_.”

They’d trussed the four Redcoats hand and foot— _a rather incompetent batch: brawny, but wide-eyed and slow as sheep_ —without any bloodshed (though no little bashing about). One by one, they’d seen them deposited them at the Glenfiddich police station. It was one of the good ones, Jamie knew, with no more than one or two of the three dozen officers in the Red leaders’ pockets. Inspector Lindsay would see the scum properly tried and incarcerated.  City Center had no lack of prison cells in which to keep the bastards.

She _was_ a good fighter, Miss Beauchamp; _very_ good in fact. A bit lacking in brute strength, certainly, but she was quick, sure, and agile. She’d even helped him out of a tight spot when one of the Reds had him in a tight hold—just sailed in feet-first to the man’s skull, she had.  Jamie had never considered himself a team fighter— _had actively avoided pairing up with Dougal and some of the others in the Resistance who’d asked, in fact—_ but even _he_ had to admit that having an ally in the thick of things was no little asset. Who’d have thought: a wee _Sassenach_ lass....

This thought reminded him, and he raised his eyebrows significantly. “You’re a formidable foe to the Reds— _Assassinach_.”

“I still don't know if I quite _like_ that alias,” she said crisply, though he thought she'd gone pink with something like pleasure.

“ _Your name, your choice_ , to be sure...but I think it's important.”

She took the whisky flask and looked at him curiously. “ _What's_ important?”

“For Scots to ken that there are English that oppose the Reds...For the decent English folk in Scotham to see one of their own resisting the thugs rather than standing silently by as they tear the city apart.” He nodded slowly to himself. “You're _needed_ , Miss Beauchamp....and just as much for your _accent_ as your ability to fight.”

“ _Assassinach_ ,” she said after a long silence, trying the word out gamely, though still sounding dubious.

“Can ye no’ just see it, then?” Jamie said with a spark of dramatic flair, fanning both hands out before them to lay the scene. “You've cornered a _huge_ Red crony in a darkened warehouse. He's grossly underestimated ye, so you've got him hanging by his boots from a crossbeam before he can blink. He's begging and pleading—” On impulse, Jamie stood and assumed the stance of a sniveling weakling, hands clasped before his face. ‘ _DON’T kill me, wot-wot! I'm a jolly good chap, m’lady, I SWEAR_!”

Miss Beauchamp choked on her gulp of whisky and straightened up, laughing, _wheezing_ , to perch on the edge of the block. “That is—the _WORST_ attempt at an English accent I've EVER heard, Mac!”

Jamie grinned but continued the pantomime, heightening the drama in his voice still further. “And then, ye pull out your knife, and— _Ye dinna have a knife?? Christ, woman, how do ye—Well, we’ll get ye one pronto, but anyhow—_ Ye pull out your knife ( _aye, aye, JUST for show, I ken ye willna kill him, dinna fash_ ) and he’ll go white and scared as a wee lamb and squeak, ‘ _Who....ARE...you?_ ’ And you’ll lean right down close to his face...” Feeling ridiculously energized and _alarmingly_ silly, Jamie went to his knees before her, and felt a tug of something in his wame when she didn't pull away. “... _inches away_ , just like this...and you’ll whisper... ‘ _ASSASSINACH’_...”

_She shivered._ A tendril of her hair had come loose, and he saw for the first time that it was curly—looping black-brown and brilliant against the white of her face in the moonlight.

“....and the last thing he remembers before ye clobber him unconscious will be his dimwit’s brain _desperately_ trying to figure out if ye said ‘ _A sassenach_ ’ or ‘ _Assassin-ach_ ’. But either way, he's properly shit himself—”

 She laughed and Jamie gave a little breath of laughter himself before locking eyes with hers, voice now deep and growling with the depth of his fury. 

“— _and that the tide is turning in earnest against all his foul lot._ ”

“ _Assassinach_ ,” she said, and _this_ time she said it with a thrill, the light of it reaching her eyes, her whole being gleaming with deadly determination. 

With a start, Jamie realized that, engrossed in his moment of playacting, both his hands had come to rest on her legs....her _thighs_.

Before he could even check to see if she minded, he jumped up to his feet and made a fuss of checking his suit and shouldering his targe. “We’d best be going, now, Miss Beauchamp.”

“We?” she said, standing, but looking thoroughly taken aback. “I’m...coming _with_ you?”

That took _him_ aback, though he supposed it shouldn't have. “Ye dinna have to, I suppose,” he said, trying to look indifferent, though his blood had gone electric with sudden fear, “but ye canna bide here. The Reds will have heard about the four that got picked up and will be looking for vigilantes out and about. We need to get to a safehouse to lay low for a bit.”

“I’ll go straight home, now,” she promised, checking her own gear now and replacing her mask.

“No, ye canna do that. Going directly home could lead them right to your doorstep, Miss Beauchamp. Ye canna risk that if ye want to keep your identity secret...or sleep safely in your bed tonight.”

“I... _do_ have a security team...” she said, looking torn.

“Come wi’ me, lass,” he said quietly, and he was shocked by the depth of feeling in his own voice as he asked, pleaded, “ _Please_?”

He didn’t want her to be in danger. The thought of a Red ambush laid for her, a knife drawn across her beautiful white throat...

_A dhia, what was this woman doing to him?_

For 456 days, he’d made the safety of Scotham his mission; risked his life night after night, not caring so long as he could safeguard Scots from the Reds...but _Christ_ , he hadn’t felt concern for just _one_ person, one _particular_  person, in...in 457 days.

“I’ll come,” she said quietly. “Thank you, Mac.”

“ _Good_ ,” he said curtly, turning toward the roof edge so she couldn’t see his face; couldn’t see him swallow back the lump that had formed in his throat. 

“Wait,” she suddenly blurted from behind him, “What is your name? Your _real_ name?”

“Is _MacDubh_ no’ enough?” he said, though teasingly.

“You know who _I_ am, when not wearing a mask,” she said, shrugging. “Fair’s fair.”

“Fair’s fair,” he agreed, turning to smile at her, a little shyly. “James Fraser.... _Jamie_.”

“Pleased to meet you, Jamie.” She thrust out a hand, a so-very-English gesture, and he took it with a laugh as she scolded, “And none of this _Miss Beauchamp_ rubbish: Call me _Claire_ , won't you?”

“ _Claire_ , then,” he said, feeling the word warm him like whisky. Like sunlight.

_Sorcha. Mo sorcha._

“What was that?”

“What?” he hissed, drawing his dirk in alarm. “Did ye hear something?” His eyes darted frantically about, looking for the source of the disturbance she’d heard.

“ _No_ ,” she laughed, drawing out one of her grappling hooks. “YOU. Am I drunker than I realize, or did you just call me a _stork_?”

“Oh, ah, no—No, I was just saying—” Jamie blushed to the roots of his hair. Thank GOD it was dark. “It’s Gaelic, ye ken—I only said—”

He stood there for _far too long_ , mouth gobbling open and shut as he scrabbled vainly for something to say. She kept those golden, twinkling eyes fixed on him, cool and patient as you please. She was in no mood to let him off easy, _damn her hide._

Somewhere, far away, a church bell began to toll. He sighed with relief and held out his hand to her. 

“I only said...  _Happy Christmas, Sassenach._ ”


	3. Episode III

**“You have to enter your super-secret safe house… through a _wheelie bin_?” **

The key-code had just revealed the dark staircase within, and Claire was staring at it as though at—well, _at a filthy dumpster in a dark alley in the middle of the night_. Which it was. 

Even with her mask on, her look of disgust was so intense, Jamie couldn’t help but grin. “Only because _you’re_ here, _Sassenach_.” He led the way, crouching through the low door, and she reluctantly followed him.  

Once the door was shut behind them, the illuminated panels of his suit showed her face still skeptical, though with a clear strain of amusement.  “So…you give all your lady callers this kind of star treatment, Mac?”

He shrugged and gestured for her to follow him down the narrow stairs. “Never had a lady caller here. _Honest_!” he protested as she snorted in disbelief. “And besides, when I’m alone, I use _this_.” He tapped his wrist in indication.

“Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, you have a….? That’s _remarkable_!” she exclaimed, grabbing his wrist as they reached the first landing.  “How in the world do you have access to portable teleporters?” she demanded as she examined the thing in awe. “Must cost a bloody _fortune_!”

“The Reds have plenty of guns,” he said, as they descended deep under the city, “and hordes of officials in their pocket, forbye, but we far outstrip them in terms of access to new tech. My Uncle Dougal has a team dedicated to churning out useful stuff for the Resistance, at cost. You’ll meet the lot in just a moment and they’ll show you just what we’ve got in our arsenal.”

They stopped at the bottom of the steps to grab bottled waters from the refrigerated cache. Claire drank hers gratefully looking tired— it _was_ after midnight, after all, and they had had a strenuous ordeal. “We’ve got a fair stretch of tunnel to get through before we reach HQ,” he said, indicating the long passage through the door, illuminated by dim, green light. “All flat, but perhaps a mile. Think ye can manage, lass?”

She only scoffed and shoved him out of the way to sprint down the corridor.

 _God_ , Jamie thought, eyes and feet momentarily riveted, _I could watch her outstrip me all. day. long._

 _Dinna be disgusting_ , he chided himself a moment later, jogging for a few dozen yards to catch up with her before matching her stride. “You’re quite fast, Sassenach.”

She slowed to a brisk walk and took another long draft of water. “Ought to be, with eight years of track and field as a kid.”

“Oh, aye?” He could see that. She had the lean build for it. “Win lots of medals?”

“My dad always said, ‘Claire, sweetheart, you *might* let some of the other runners have a turn at winning every now and again!’”

“Let me guess:  taking second place out of pity wasna _quite_ your style.”

“You wager correctly,” she laughed. “ _Run ‘em into the ground_ , was more my motto.” She took off her mask in stride and rubbed her face in relief. “Oof, I’ll tell you what though, it is NO FUN running and working up a sweat in all this _leather_.”

“Aye, as fetching as your getup is, we’ve got to get ye a _proper_ suit, lass. Something bulletproof, for starters.”

“Alright, then,” she grinned, “as long as it isn’t _PLAID_.”

“If it were, I’d see ye in court over it! Tis my trademark!” He removed his own PLAID mask and gloves, stretching his fingers absently as he grinned at her. “Canna have ye mucking up my personal brand, now can I?”

“Oh!” she said suddenly, halting to look at the hand he was rubbing. “Is that a ruby?”

“Aye,” he confirmed, stopping too and handing the ring to her for inspection. “'Twas my father’s.”

“It’s beautifully made…” Her whisky-colored eyes were alight as she turned it tenderly in her fingers. “ _Gorgeous_ …..”

“Been in our family for many generations. It was one of the few earthly possessions Da truly treasured.”

She looked up at him, eyebrows drawn. “Treasur/ _ed/_ ….Is….Did he…?”

He hesitated only a moment. “Aye. He and my mother, both. She in a car accident when I was small; Da, when…”

_He couldn’t speak of that day. Not yet._

He cleared his throat. “A stroke. I was sixteen.”

“I’m…so sorry.”

As fierce as she was in battle, as biting and vicious as she tended to be with her words, there was nothing in Claire in that moment but… _love_.

He shook his head to rid himself of that fool notion, but looked down to see her hand wrapped around his. It was small and warm, _strong_. He squeezed it and met her eye. “Thank you, _Sassenach_.”

After a moment, she brought their joined hands upward and slipped the ring back on his finger. Was it his imagination, or did she seem reluctant to let go?

She did, though, and resumed her brisk pace down the corridor.

 _Strange…horrible?…..shameful?….that in six words and a simple touch, he felt closer to Claire than he_ ever _had with Annalise._

_Aye….shameful. When he could still remember the weight of her dead body in his arms on the ground. Still remember the way her sky eyes stared upward, unseeing as the murder and chaos thronged pitilessly around them._

_Shameful, Jamie._

_But the truth._

“Did you play any sport yourself as a youngster?” Her jovial, joking tone was back, and he was grateful for the gift of easy distraction. 

“Oh, aye, a bit of shinty and rugby at school.”

“Were you any good?” she demanded, eyes glinting.

He tried to look modest. “Not bad.”

“Good enough to… CATCH ME?”

She set off at a lightning-fast sprint again before Jamie could blink. “CHEATER!” he called after her, laughing, trying to catch up. She was so fast he could barely make her out in the dim light ahead. “LEFT!” he yelled as she nearly missed the turning. “THE LEFT PASSAGE!”

She veered left and flashed him a taunting grin over her shoulder as she disappeared from view. It was only a few seconds before he reached the turning himself, but damn she was fast. He put on a fresh burst of speed

then heard her scream

and heard her body hit the ground.

He knew he was running, faster than he’d ever run before, each footfall screaming to him, _FASTER_.

He knew his dirk was in his hand, and he was screaming for her. He knew she was there, under attack.

_FASTER_

Claire.

_FASTER_

Standing in the green haze, her back to him, legs spread as if ready to dive.

_FASTER_

A wavegun blast barreling out of the darkness, the blue energy slamming into her with such force she fell to one knee with a great, gritted yell of pain and anger.

_FASTER_

Back on her feet.

_FASTER_

Another blast .

_FASTER_

Another cry

_FASTER_

In the dim light beyond her, the fast-approaching shape of—

“UNCLE!” his own disembodied voice was screaming, “S T O P !”

_FASTER_

Dougal mere feet away from her now, knife in one hand and blaster in the other

_F A S T E R_

Claire crouching lightning-fast and kicking him hard in the kneecap

Dougal grabbing her by the shoulders and flinging her hard onto the ground

_F A S —_

Dougal pointing the blaster down at her head

**“NO!”**

Jamie collided hard with his uncle, knocking the shooting arm so the blast hit the far wall. He had the bastard pinned on the ground and was screaming down at him in Gaelic, completely overtaken by blood-red rage; then a sharp _WHIZZ-WHIZZ_  and his orientation spun, feeling his body tumbling and heaving in midair, flying; and then his forehead collided hard with something solid and everything went black.

It couldn’t have been more than a couple of seconds, but even so, he awoke disoriented, his vision blurred and searing pain gripping his wrists. He found he couldn’t move and he blinked, realizing with a jolt of fury that he was pinned face-first to the wall with a set of Dougal’s telekinetic cuffs that kept his wrists trapped high over his head.

He jerked and struggled against the restraints, his head blinding with pain as he confronted wildly over his shoulder. “CLAIRE?”

Dougal had one of his cuffs on her too, pinning her to the opposite wall by her throat. Her toes barely touched the floor, and she was struggling hard to breathe, scream, kick out, anything.

“DOUGAL! LET HER GO!” he screamed.

“I never have fucking believed it,” Dougal growled lethally, his knife and eyes never leaving Claire. “Never thought I’d live to see my own blood raise a hand to me in defense of a filthy _Sassenach_ , in our own house.”

“She’s on our SIDE, Dougal!” he cried, trying to turn around to face the bastard directly, but the cuffs prevented it. “For the love of God, let her down, and I’ll explain everything!”

“On our side?” Dougal snarled and Jamie barely had time to cry out before Dougal’s knife flashed downward and Claire screamed in excruciating pain

Never had Jamie felt so helpless. Not even on the day of the Cull, as he watched Annalise and so many others die.

He was screaming out her name, feeling the cuffs drawing blood as he struggled to free himself, to reach her—

And then Dougal was walking toward him. Over Dougal’s shoulder, Jamie could just see Claire, paler than he thought possible, blood spilling freely from collarbone to shoulder. Dougal had not gone for the kill it seemed, but had cut out a large strip of Claire’s suit from the high collar to her left shoulder, taking no heed for her safety and leaving a long gash as he went. Dougal held this strip in his hands as he drew nearer.

“Claire! _Sassenach_ , CHRIST, are ye—”

Of course she wasn’t alright. She couldn’t even reply; could barely touch the ground, and struggling as she was to get high enough above the cuff to breathe, every movement pulled on the wound and gave her more pain. She would pass out, in a moment; and if the knife had nicked an artery, she would—

Jamie struggled furiously against his own bonds, seething at Dougal. “Dougal— for fuck’s sake, release her before you KILL HER. She’s on OUR SIDE!!”

Dougal ignored this, and raised the strip of leather, dripping with Claire’s blood, shaking with Dougal’s own rage, in Jamie’s face “A _Sassenach_ wearing RED is on our side, aye?”

“She’s Claire Beauchamp,” Jamie spat through his teeth, his fury blocking his ability to speak more clearly. “Claire _Beauchamp_.”  

“EXACTLY,” Dougal bellowed, “Fiancée to FRANK RANDALL. THAT name ring any bells?”

It was as if someone had shoved a ball of hot lead down Jamie’s throat. 

 _Fiancée_.

Even through her restraints, even hurt and weakening as she was, she shook her head fiercely at Jamie. but before she could even attempt to speak, Dougal tele-released the collar so that she fell hard to the ground. To her credit, she moved fast to scrabble to her feet but Dougal strode over and knocked her flat, putting his huge boot on her neck. He leaned forward to put more weight on it and she gave a gurgling scream of pain and panic.

“UNCLE” Jamie bellowed, but he was totally and completely helpless in Dougal’s restraints. “LAY ANOTHER HAND ON HER, AND I SWEAR, I’LL—”

“What’ll ye do, pup? What, eh?” Dougal’s voice was low and quiet. Confident and unfeeling. He pointed the knife down at her, keeping Jamie’s eye. “I could slit her throat right now…. and ye couldna do a _thing_ to stop it.”

Claire was crying but her eyes were closed, her lips closed tight together. She wouldn’t cry out again, if this were the end.

Jamie was begging, now, tears flowing freely and teeth gritted. “For the sake of my mother, your sister, you’ll let this woman leave. FOR ELLEN!”

Silence reigned for a long, long time, save for Jamie’s whispered. “Please….please….”

At last, Dougal removed the boot. He leaned down and snarled quietly in her face. “Get. Out. And if I ever see ye again… I WILL cut your throat, _Sassenach_ bitch.”

She got shakily to her feet. She was bleeding profusely from the shoulder and there was a fresh trickle of blood running from her hairline down to her jaw. Claire’s throat was so damaged from Dougal’s mistreatment she could barely produce sound, but she glared fiercely at Dougal and mouthed furiously with the hint of a hoarse whisper.  “ _FUCK….YOU…._ ”

And with not a glance at Jamie, she turned and ran limping back up the passage from whence they’d come.

Jamie tried to call after her, but Dougal took that moment to release the fetters and punch Jamie hard in the stomach as he fell. 

“Uncle….” he wheezed, as he got laboriously to his feet. “What the fuck—s’matter with—”

“Wi’ ME? “ He shoved Jamie hard against the wall. “What is the matter with YOU! How FUCKING _dare_ you, Jamie!”

“She IS on our side, Uncle,” Jamie snarled. “I’ll stake my own life against it, and will stand as surety for all her actions.”  

“Our side,” Dougal spat derisively, retracting his foul tools with the press of a button on his forearm and kicking the strip of leather on the ground with disgust.

“The….the red suit was a poor choice, I’ll grant you,” Jamie said faintly, still seething, but feeling now as though he would be sick, seeing the limp hide on the ground, oozing with Claire’s blood. He gritted his teeth and said more boldly. “I reacted much the same way when I encountered her tonight— nearly throttled her myself, but ye didna give her a chance to speak her piece, man! She’s a true believer in our cause, Dougal—the Reds murdered her parents.”

“And yet she’s content to remain engaged to the nephew of the son of a bitch that probably gave the order? The son of a bitch responsible for _your Da_ as well?”  

_Engaged._

_Buck the fucking hell up, Jamie, you’ve known her for a few hours—you’ve no cause whatsoever to feel—_

_But RANDALL—of all the goddamn pricks in this city, she had to choose the one whose uncle—_

He clenched his fists, speaking with more confidence than he felt. “I TRUST her, Dougal.”

“So you’ll place a _Sassenach_  above your own flesh and blood? Your own blood that practically raised you?”

“Ye _trained_ me, Dougal. My _parents_ raised me…Thank God, they raised me to be a better man than you.”

Dougal raised a hand as though to strike him, but then lowered it and turned his back, speaking gruffly. “Get changed, lad. Your auntie’s kept Christmas Eve dinner late for ye, and we’re going to—”

But Jamie was already striding fast back up the corridor.

“You’re no’ going after that  _Sassenach_ whore, Jamie,” came Dougal’s voice, sharp and threatening.

“She’s no’ a whore,” he spat over his shoulder, not slowing.

He heard the _whiz_ behind him but this time, he was ready. The cuff sliced in two against his raised dirk as he whirled.  

He lowered the blade just enough to level it at Dougal.

“Use your goddamned contraptions against me again, Uncle, and it’s your _own_ throat that’ll need watching.”  

 


End file.
